


A Lesson in Humility

by jessicathebestica



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, M/M, anonymous fic prompt from tumblr, but I ran out of time, fic posted there as well, i really got into this one and I wanted to write more, placed directly into a scene from the book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:53:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessicathebestica/pseuds/jessicathebestica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taken from this fic prompt on makinghugospin:</p><p>"One of the aspects of Grantaire’s character (in the Brick) that doesn’t seem to get touched on much is that he knows all the best places to drink and box and dance, and generally how to enjoy student life to the full. So could we have something involving this? Grantaire showing some/all of the Amis a good time? This doesn’t preclude angsty! Grantaire - in fact, combining the two is much encouraged. Would prefer cannon eta but I’d be so pleased for any fills so if someone wants to write an AUs, please go ahead."</p><p>In the heat of the moment, Enjolras kissed Grantaire. He tried to pretend it never happened, but these things have a habit of coming back to bite you. This lesson, however, was a surprisingly enlightening one for Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson in Humility

**Author's Note:**

> So, using the livejournal prompt, I tweaked the barriere du Maine scene and turned it into a conversation that Enjolras and Grantaire have after unexpectedly kissing. Therefore, I used bits of the actual text and dramatized it a bit. Hope it all makes sense. Let me know what you think! ; )

Regret is an emotion as complex and intricate as the high gothic walls of the Saint-Chappelle.

To start, Enjolras will at least admit this: he did not entirely regret kissing Grantaire after the last meeting of the Friends de l’ABC.  It was an irrational decision, to be sure, fueled by an exceptionally heated argument that occurred between the pair, but the kiss itself sent a pulsing rush through Enjolras’ body that he had never felt before and wished to feel again and again and again.

He did, however, regret the consequences of his action.  Being a leader of the incumbent French revolution meant that every decision he made came with a price.  It was his duty to be a role model for the people, and though it seemed logical for him to act on the freedoms he felt every French citizen deserved, having a strong desire to make love to another man was decidedly not one of them.  Enjolras needed to be resilient and prove to the people that having certain unalienable rights did not lead to gluttonous behavior.

After the illustrious kiss, it wasn’t that difficult for Enjolras to wear a mask in the presence of this intriguing drunkard, for Grantaire truly was a drunkard and an irritatingly opinionated one at that.  At each meeting in the upstairs room of the Café Musain, Enjolras would boast of their allegiances and renew the young men’s faith that liberty was just around the corner, while Grantaire would continue spewing venomous contradictions and express his never-ending doubts of their revolution.

Everything was as it was before and they both could go on living as if nothing ever happened between them.

Or, maybe not.

“It is proper that we should know where we stand and on whom we may count,” Enjolras said as he was preparing to adjourn that evening’s meeting of the Friends de l’ABC.  “Courfeyrac, you will see the polytechnic students.  It is their day to go out.  Feuilly, you will see those of the Glaciere, will you not?  Combeferre has promised me to go to Picpus.  There is a perfect swarm and an excellent one there.  Bahorel will visit the Estrapade.  Prouvaire, the masons are growing lukewarm; you will bring us news from the lodge of the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honore.  Joly will go to Dupuytren's clinical lecture, and feel the pulse of the medical school.  Bossuet will take a little turn in the court and talk with the young law licentiates. I will take charge of the Cougourde myself.”

He concluded his speech with a curt nod before turning about and marking down his latest instructions on the map of Paris that was laid out before him.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre announced softly when he was confident the other Amis had all busied themselves with more important tasks and were out of earshot.  “May I speak plainly?”

The blonde smiled as he clasped his friend’s shoulder.  “Your right to do so is the very reason we are gathered in this room, dear friend.”

The Philosophy student adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses uneasily—which gave Enjolras cause for concern as Combeferre was generally the picture of ease and tranquility.

“Perhaps I am not attuned to all the details of this situation, but I am of the opinion that of late you have been a bit too hard on a certain skeptic in our company.”

Enjolras clenched his teeth painfully as he turned his gaze to a stack of pamphlets on the table—as if examining their contents was more important than having an honest conversation with one of his closest comrades.  “If you are referring to Grantaire—”

“Of course, he’s talking about Grantaire,” Courfeyrac interrupted appearing behind Enjolras and eagerly awaiting to give his two cents worth on the matter.  “Could there be anyone else?  You shoot his opinions down as a rule.  How is he to be converted if you’re always eagerly prepared to dictate his every thought?” 

“I’m not dictating his—”  Enjolras took a few breaths to quell his rising temper.  “No.  On second thought, I’d rather not justify my own personal beliefs to the pair of you.  I should think I did not have to, considering you both have been two of my most loyal supporters on this issue, but if you continue to insist that I change my ways for a non-believer than I must beg your leave.”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac begged as he fought off the eye roll that always accompanied the blonde leader’s penchant for theatrics, “this is not a matter of wanting you to change who you are.  ‘Ferre and I are merely expressing our concern for Grantaire’s wellbeing, which we believe is bizarrely founded on your approval and acknowledgement.  A cynical drunkard he may be, but he is also our friend.  Have you not noticed how withdrawn he has been these last three nights hence?”

The marble-faced revolutionary did not take the bait.  He folded his arms across his chest haughtily.  “I see no change.  He is still perfectly capable of antagonistically vocalizing his opposition to my plans of action; tonight’s meeting another shining example of this fact.”

Combeferre stepped in again.  “Then I fear you are seeing only what you wish to see, Enjolras; for if you took a moment to remove yourself from your map and these pamphlets, you would see a friend who looks more like a dark-haired stranger sitting in the back corner of the room, begging no audience and allowing no one to approach him.  Yet he does not leave.  Why is this?”

“And somehow I am to have the answer to your query?” the blonde countered insubordinately.  Honestly.  Curse Combeferre and his double-weighted logic.  Enjolras should not have to feel guilty for Grantaire’s reclusive behavior—and yet he did just the same.  He felt his stoic resolve wavering as he nonchalantly looked to his friends for assistance.  “This is absurd.  What could I even say to get him to abandon this melancholic state he has placed himself in?”

Courfeyrac scratched his head.  “If only there was a way for Enjolras to make Grantaire feel included,” he said sardonically.  “I mean, he’s only the leader of a rebellion in need of more recruits.  I don’t see how Grantaire’s many acquaintances with the lower class divisions of the city could be of any service there.”

The blonde cast his eyes heavenward.  “I really do feel you’ve been spending far too much time with the sarcastic cynic.”

“He can be good company…when encouraged and appreciated,” Courfeyrac said with a shrug.

Combeferre stepped in again.  “He does make a fair point, Enjolras.  Not ten minutes ago you assigned tasks to everyone in this room excepting Grantaire.  Why is that?”

There were several answers Enjolras could have given here but he didn’t want to own up to them.  Yes, he was trying to avoid conversing with Grantaire unless maliciously provoked to the point where he could no longer remain idle.  Yes, a part of him thought the drunkard was incapable of carrying out such an important task for their cause—not to mention that it seemed quite counterproductive to send a skeptic out on a mission to recruit more followers for the revolution.  What could the man possibly say to convince the citizens to stand up and fight for their country?

“I see that it is pointless arguing with you any further,” Enjolras finally said, admitting defeat.  “Perhaps, there is another part of town I could send Grantaire to visit, but do keep in mind that I am really only doing this to shut you two up.”

He began to trudge over to the other side of the room, but not before glaring at Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras called, which forced the dark-haired man to lift his head and look up at the blond blearily.  “Good god, exactly how drunk are you?”

The man flashed a lopsided grin, eyes glazed and head swimming blissfully.  “As drunk as Dionysus wishes me to be.  Give me but one bottle of wine more and it shall feel as if I am dancing under the harvest moon with the Mycenean Greeks of old.  Oh, what I would not give to be in procession with his hordes of maenads and satyrs, celebrating a life of wine and ecstasy.  You may not know this, Apollo, but this god I speak of was also referred to as Eleutherios, or ‘the liberator’, because he freed his followers from self-conscious fear and care, from the oppressive restraints of the mighty.  Perhaps, you have more in common with the god of wine than you might think.”

“Are you saying I have the power to free the people of France from oppression?” Enjolras asked, egging Grantaire on in a way that was completely uncharacteristic of him.

Grantaire was quick with his reply as he gazed into the clear blue eyes of his angelic leader.  “No, I am saying that you are a handsome, androgynous youth, much like the sculptures of Dionysus have depicted.  Who would not willingly abandon reason or a commendable standard of living for the chance to follow such a heavenly creature?  Persuasion comes in many forms.”

“You are confusing persuasion with seduction.”

“Are they not one and the same?” Grantaire shot back cheekily. 

As much as he tried to suppress it, Enjolras’ overwhelming lust for the skeptic was starting to resurface.  This conversation was heading in a direction he was not prepared to endure and he needed a change of topic.  “On the matter of persuasion, I was hoping to ask a small favor of you.”

The scruffy man’s interest was piqued.  “I shall listen to your proposal with rapt attention, Apollo.”

Ignoring Grantaire’s use of that horrendous nickname, Enjolras pressed on.  “At the Barriere du Maine there are marble-workers, painters, and journeymen in the studios of sculptors.  They are an enthusiastic bunch, but liable to cool off.  There is an urgent need for someone to go and talk with them a little, but with a degree of firmness.  They meet at Richefeu's.”

“Ah, yes,” the drunkard interposed, scratching the scruff on his neck, “I know it well.  They often play dominos there between the hours of 12 and  1.”

Enjolras nodded.  “As I am told as well.  For that errand I had counted on that abstracted Marius, who seems a good fellow, yet no longer comes to us.  I need someone for the Barriere du Maine.  Do you consider yourself capable of this task?”

Grantaire gave a snort of laughter.  “Capable?  Why yes, I am, as you say, quite capable.  I am capable of descending the Rue de Gres, of crossing the Place Saint-Michel, of sloping through the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, of taking the Rue—”

“I will have none of your games, Grantaire,” Enjolras peevishly interrupted.  “You know my meaning.  Honestly.  Are you good for anything?”

Leaning back in his chair, Grantaire inspected the blonde carefully.  “I have a vague ambition in that direction.”

“Stop speaking in riddles and tell me plainly.  Can you be entrusted with this task?”

“My answer to that question is only as good as your belief in it.”  A selfish idea then entered Grantaire’s mind and it wasn’t in his character to ignore it.  “If you truly do not trust me enough to do this, then perhaps you should join me in the task so that I might further prove my worth to you.”

This invitation was startlingly unexpected and Enjolras could not immediately find it in him to either accept or refuse.  A part of him wanted to spend more time in this man’s company, but another part knew it was wrong.  Enjolras needed his head clear of any and all distractions if he was going to put his battle plan into motion, and Grantaire was certainly a distraction.  On the opposite spectrum, if Grantaire truly believed he could persuade these artists and journeymen to join in the fight for freedom, well, this was a spectacle worth seeing.

“I have other matters to attend to, Grantaire,” he said in the end.  “I would not be asking for your help if I thought I had the time to go there myself.”

“You?  Go there on your own?  Apollo, as beautifully inspiring as your words often are, I doubt that sort of rhetoric could entice the likes of these men to listen.  They need comradery, someone willing to get down to their level and have a drink and play a round or two.  They don’t need a preacher.  So, again I ask, come with me.  Come see how the lower half lives and I’ll show you where the ragpickers go to drink their wine—The Saucepan and The Slaughter-House, although never go to The Slaughter-House because it smells like rotten entrails—and that you can get some excellent matelotes at the Barriere de la Cunette, and the best billiards can be found at the Café Voltaire.  If you stop furrowing your brow at me for at least a quarter of an hour, I’ll even take you by the Ermitage since it is along the way.  They make these delectable cakes that cannot be found anywhere else.”

Enjolras blushed a little, embarrassed that his brow was as creased as it was.  He did not intend to look at Grantaire that way.  It wasn’t meant to come off as criticizing; he was just simply trying to figure the man out.  “I never realized you knew so much about Paris.  I only ever seem to meet you here or at the Corinth.  There is so much I apparently do not know about you.”

“Though it seems quite outside of the realm of possibility, I do have a life outside of wineshops, Enjolras.  Not that my life is glamorous by any stretch of the imagination.  I loathe to admit that my knowledge of pastries and billiards comes from a lack of a permanent home.  You see, proprietors seldom take a liking to me and I don’t last longer than a few months before I’m out searching for new lodgings.  My witty tongue is often seen as a gift and a curse, I’m afraid.”

 _Or it could have to do with the countless nights you return home in a drunken stupor_ , Enjolras thought but chose not to voice because this was a situation that required sympathy and not scrutiny.  Although, Enjolras wasn’t very good with sympathy either so maybe it was best for him to just keep his mouth firmly shut.

“So, what do you say, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, bringing the conversation back to its intended path.  “Will you indulge me just this once?  Will you come and see how well I’ve listened to you quote Robespierre, remark on the Rights of Man and plead for the sovereignty of the people?”

There was a considerable pause before Enjolras replied.  “I think I can spare a moment or two after all.”  Grantaire smiled at this.  “It will also give us the opportunity to…talk.  There is a certain matter I have, admittedly, delayed discussing.  I promise not to delay it any further.”

Grantaire swallowed and for one of the first times since Enjolras first met him, there was a look of honest sincerity on the man’s face.  No cunning grin.  No incredulous brow arch.  He looked completely open, almost as if he was on the verge of baring his soul to Enjolras.  “I look forward to it.”


End file.
